Friday, September 7, 2012

There comes a time in every girl's life when she realizes that she is, by definition, older than the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.This is often closely followed by the realization that she will likely never learn to skateboard, that slating "concert tickets" & "gum" as primary expenses is no longer financially feasible—& that, despite her best efforts, she probably won't be developing superpowers anytime soon.

While this last revelation is, of course, most devastating on an "I'll never get to study at the X-Men school"-level, it also brings crashing down to earth, say, her perceived ability to take six college classes, manage a newspaper, have anything resembling a social life, & also continue writing for pleasure.All of this is to say: Though I know I've been the slouchiest of slouches (read: nonexistent) when it comes to any sort of online writing as of late, it's likely that I'll sink even further into the depths of non-post-itude between now & December. All apologies, as the song goes, & on, & on. (What else could I write? I don't have a right...)Meanwhile, as I prepare for my leap off this self-constructed plank into nonverbal oblivion, here's a slice to sate you: a piece I wrote for my beloved Eye on the recent resurgence of lady buddy comedies—AKA, "Girls Getting Gross."

Also, take this video, which is kind of beyond fabulous:

Catch you on the flipside, kids.

Today's Headphone Fodder:

Here's two for you—three, if you include the sick stylings of PSY, above. I'm all over the place these days.

My Name is:

Jukebox graduate. Post-collegiate. Recovering anemophobic, fresh off the boat with a dance belt & a tube of chapstick. An alligator, a mama-papa comin' for you. Unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death—or, you know, between old West Wing episodes & showertime Ramones renditions. Turn-ons: Poe stories, sparkly things; turn-offs: self-proclaimed audiophiles, Twitter. Lifelong ambition: to write a book for the 33 1/3 Series—&/or marry Eddie Izzard.
In someone else's words: "I am a confused musician who got sidetracked into this goddamn Word business for so long that I never got back to music—except maybe when I find myself oddly alone in a quiet room with only a typewriter to strum on and a yen to write a song. Who knows why? Maybe I just feel like singing—so I type. These quick electric keys are my Instrument, my harp, my RCA glass-tube microphone, and my fine soprano saxophone all at once. That is my music, for good or ill, and on some nights it will make me feel like a god."